The Secret House of Death by Ruth Rendell

little surprised, for up till now, she had shown no interest in the recovery of his property and seemed indifferent as to whether he went or stayed.
    Heller dragged out a stool from under the table and stuck it against the dresser on which was a pile of unironed linen. His wife watched him open the cupboard and fumble about inside.
    â€˜There was a phone call for you,’ she said abruptly, her full mouth pouting. ‘That North woman.’ Heller mumbled something. ‘I thought it was a bloody nerve, phoning here.’ This time her husband made no reply. ‘Damned cheek!’ she said, as if trying to provoke from him a spark of anger.
    â€˜I hope you didn’t forget your manners on the phone.’
    David was rather shocked. Uncouth, graceless, Magdalene might be, jealous even. She had hardly deserved to be reproved with such paternal gruffness in front of a stranger. She was evidently drawing breath for an appropriate rejoinder, but David never found out what it would have been. Heller, whose aims and shoulders had been inside the cup-board, retreated and, as he emerged, something heavy and metallic fell out on to the linen.
    It was a gun.
    David knew next to nothing about firearms. A Biretta or a Mauser, they were all the same to him. He knew only that it was some sort of automatic. It lay there glistening, half on Heller’s underpants and half on a pink pillow slip.
    Neither of the Hellers said anything. To break the rather ghastly silence, David said facetiously, ‘Your secret arsenal?’
    Heller started gabbling very fast then. ‘I know I shouldn’t have it, it’s illegal. As a matter of fact, I smuggled it in from the States. Went on a business trip. The Customs don’t always look, you know. Magdalene had got scared, being here alone. You get some very funny people about out there, fights, brawls, that kind of thing. Only last week there was a bloke down in the alley shouting at some woman to give him his money. A ponce, I dare say. Hitting her and shouting he was. In Greek,’ he added, as if this made things worse.
    â€˜It’s no business of mine,’ David said.
    â€˜I just thought you might think it funny.’
    Suddenly Magdalene stamped her foot. ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake. We’re going to the pictures at seven-thirty and it’s ten past now. And there’s the washing-up to do first.’
    â€˜I’ll do that.’
    â€˜Aren’t you coming, then?’
    â€˜No, thanks.’
    She turned off the oven, lifted the plates and carried them into the living-room. David thought she would return, but she didn’t. The door closed and faintly from behind it he heard the sound of spy thriller music.
    â€˜Here it is at last,’ Heller said. ‘It was right at the back behind the hair dryer.’
    â€˜I’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’
    Heller passed the projector down to him. ‘That’s one thing I won’t have to worry about, anyway,’ he said. He didn’t close the cupboard doors and he left the gun where it lay.
    Perhaps it was the presence of the gun, grim, ugly, vaguely threatening, in this grim and ugly household that made David say on an impulse, ‘Look, Bernard, if there’s anything I can do . . .’
    Heller said stonily, ‘Nobody can do anything. Not a magician, are you? Not God? You can’t put the clock back.’
    â€˜You’ll be better when you get to Zürich.’
    â€˜If I get there.’
    The whole thing had shaken David considerably. Once out of the courtyard, he found himself a pub, bigger and brassier and colder than the Man in the Iron Mask. He had another whisky and then he walked up to the tube station, discovering when he was a few yards from it that it was called East Mulvihill. As he walked under the stone canopy of the station entrance he caught sight of Magdalene Heller on the other side of the street, walking briskly, almost